Soul Chip

I felt my soul attempt to flee
Through frieghtened skin and fly alone
It shoved up hard
With wings of western steel
And cranked it's tiny micro joints
Inside, no charge or blazing torch
Just bent electric music plays
Beat quick you fake confusing fuck
I'm nothing more than flesh and fone

4.19 am

It shakes my bones.
Hammers the night into my guts and
Takes flight the strength of twisted, clamped tight teeth.
Enamel cracks, and a half truth seeps out
Where a white lie grows black.
Infected by time,
Like a blackboard to scratch,
I claw my hands down a greasy face and feel deep the screech.
The deliberate hatred.
The tremulous rage.
The mechanical order of mind burns war with a chemical swirl.
I'm scared of love,
So with you I killed lonliness.
And fought for nothing much until the sun outshone our grave.

A Wee Boat in the Bright Night

The cello swells
But the sea lies flat on a hairless chest.
Seemingly though, a ship swims back to shore
With no sextant or logical love for
Land or prose or personality type.
A trap i swear,
A single wave to cast away the sky
could never be.
This little ship, with it's single faultless sail
Now sinks,
Down.
Gone. But always there in my medium heart.

Locked In Syndrome

My tight eyes,
Are my hands and and my un-sex,
My fist clenched dribble language,
And my screeching banshee heart.
A stick thin snigger of benefit flesh,
Though never once choked on the gloop-food
Squeezed through the hole in my face,
Where a wired voice is strangled silent.

The second he opens his eyes,
He looks at the telly,
Turns to find last night's curry,
Which he starts eating,
Cursing last night's bad luck.
He didn't get a fuck,
And spent all his giro,
In a nightclub where no one could hear him.
The electronic sounds were too loud.

City Living

Whilst the ash red twilight groans,
And the pretty cars chase themselves
Through slate grey Glasgow streets:
I will stay here.

As my sleep dipped brain sweats fret,
Spun by a dirty, manic wind
That blows into a hole:
I will stay here.

Amongst the bustle and murder of hope,
Where language and defiance die
A digital half-death:
I will stay here.

Where i find her, beautiful and content, waiting for me, at the station: I will live there.

A Near Kiss

A near kiss

sparkles like wide-awake.
Peels soft skin off star-glittered lips
swept up in keen, tipsy sunshine.

Funeral on the 23rd of December.

Funeral on the 23rd of December.

The hard ground
and the soft snow
cracked and caressed the shuffling feet
Whilst this winter chilled us all above and below.
A few heavy laden folk turn up too slowly
With the noise of xmas disrespectfully ringing in their ears.
What a day for dust.
And ash.
And snow.
A day negated by eve,
lived only through some hurried stuff and nae work.
The bells and the holly aren’t even for him,
But for a cross Pinnochio, who,
on occasion,
condescends to this place.
With this man,
I lie white cold,
Like a thoughtless gift in a decorative box.